C'est La Vie
by swingdancer23
Summary: Lillian works at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory on the 9th floor in  1911 - she is working when a fire breaks out on the 8th floor. When her floor  is not notified of the fire, they discover it only when the fire is in their  midst. Will she survive?
1. Chapter 1

**Based off the true event of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire that occurred on March 25, 1911. Yes, the centennial was this year. Go check out the facts if you don't know about this - it's a very important event in history.**

**This is for the Dares Forum - Tragedy Dare.**

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><p><em>C'est la Vie<em>

_Part 1_

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><p><strong>Denny POV<strong>

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><p>"Have a good day at work, my Sweet." I kiss my fiancée's cheek and she smiles at me.<p>

"You too," she says, her strong, French accent lacing through each syllable. Then she turns around and walks towards the Asch Building, where she works as a seamstress at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. I watch her enter the building, so I know she's safe. After she's inside, I turn around and walk over to my workplace at a nearby law firm. Yeah, I work at a law firm, but I'm no lawyer. I'm just one of those employees that work in the background; I sign papers, write up contracts, and make sure everything runs smoothly. There's a name for it, but I forget what it is.

Someday…someday after I'm married to Lillian, maybe I'll stop being plain old Denny Brown, and be Attorney Brown, and maybe even Judge Brown one day. I think that'd be mighty special. Then maybe Lillian could quit her job at that God-awful factory. She wouldn't have to be worked to death every day, yelled at and spat upon by her bosses, Isaac Harris and Max Blanck, for working too slow, get paid $7 a week... Heck, she wouldn't even have to work. I'd take care of her for life; just to make up for the treatment she gets in that factory.

As I push open the revolving door, my coworker, Elliot, rushes up to me with a folder in his hand. His peach colored hair is askew, his huge circle glasses are crooked and about to fall off his nose, and his tie is hanging loose around his neck.

This is Elliot's typical appearance. He's usually running around frantically, always worrying about something - like a chicken with its head cut off.

"Denny! There's an emer-"

I cut him off. "Emergency, yes, I know. What is it this time?" I settle into my stance and cross my arms, waiting. It seems like there's always an emergency with Elliot.

He says something to me, but I'm already thinking about something else.

The one thing I can't wait for her to get away from is being searched at the door every day at the end of her shift. Blanck and Harris arranged the guards to be there to prevent "employee theft". I think the correct term is "greed", but their minds are set. Those guards violate her personal space; they grope and feel all along her clothing, including her private areas. It makes me so angry, and I can't do anything about it. No one should do that to someone as beautiful and innocent as Lillian. She'd never steal, lie, or cheat, and the fact they invade her like that makes me want to kill those guards – but I can't. I can't kill anyone! It's not the right thing to do, and it wouldn't help anything. It would just make things worse.

Elliot gets my attention by snapping his fingers in front of my face. "Denny. Denny!"

"Oh, sorry, Elliot. Continue," I say, my attention once again turned to Elliot.

He appears irritated, but continues. "It's the Johnsons! They want to drop the case! T-t-they can't do that, can they?"

I shake my head calmly. "No, they can't, Elliot. Not under these circumstances."

He stops short. "They can't?"

"Yes, Elliot, they can't drop the case at this point. They're in way too deep. There are so many other factors that contribute, but to make a long story short, they can't."

"Oh. Well, here's a document I need to you to sign." He shoves the folder in his hands towards me. "Immediately. It's an emergency."

I sigh and wave my hand dismissively. "Follow me; I'll sign it in my office." Elliot nods and begins power-walking towards the stairs. I guess I'm following him. "Elliot. Let's take the elevator," I suggest.

He whips around and wordlessly makes a beeline to where I'm standing – in front of the elevator door. As we wait for our turn, Elliot rocks on his heels, bouncing every so often. I don't understand why he's so fidgety and nervous all the time. He comes from a rich family – one of the owners of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory is his uncle. Why is he even working – and why here? He's so low on the rankings at this job, when just two blocks away is a potential well-paying job (for him, at least); and he'd barely have to work for it, just because he's a relative of Isaac Harris.

We aren't waiting for long, and when the elevator door opens, we step in and wait for the operator to take us to floor six. The elevator creaks and moans as we get lifted higher and higher and higher, eventually jerking to a stop and opening its doors. Elliot and I thank the operator and step off before walking down the hallway and to my office. He shuts the door behind him and slaps the file on my desk as I'm sitting down, making a nice '_snap!_'sound as it hits the cherry-colored wood.

"Sign it," Elliot says sternly, handing me a pen.

I sigh and scribble some letters down, not really paying attention. Elliot picks up the document and scans it over, looking for any errors in my signature. I lean back in my chair and take my Monroe hat off, placing it on the desk as I wait.

Smiling, he closes the folder with one quick motion from his right hand. "Perfect! Now, I'd hate to distract you further, so I'll be leaving now. Have a good day!" Elliot exclaims over his shoulder, walking out. He shuts the door, and I bury my face in my hands, my fingers running through my thick, curly, dark brown hair.

Elliot really stresses me out.

My mind wanders once again, a terrible habit of mine.

I'm always urging Lillian to join a labor union, but she's hesitant. She doesn't want to upset her bosses or jeopardize her job, the only source of income she has. I try to share my earnings with her, but I really can't afford it. Lillian knows it, too; she doesn't like to accept my money, but sometimes in dire situations (such as not being able to afford food for a day and a half), she has to accept it. I'll never let her go hungry. I'll never let her get hurt.

_What should Lillian and I do tonight after work? I could take her on a walk through the park, or we could cook some dinner together, or…_

We could get married.

Lillian and I have talked about when we're going to get married, but we've never decided on a firm date. I know what I'm going to do. I'll go see her on my lunch break and propose that we get married tonight after work.

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><p><strong>Thanks so much for reading, and sorry it's a short chapter - that'll be made up in the next chapter. I promise!<strong>

**HUGE thanks to my beta, Peach the Hedgehog! I appreciate all the suggestions you gave me, and I'll be sure to apply them in my future writing as well :)**

**Reviews are appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I know Antoinette is OOC in this, but it just kind of fit!**

**Credit goes to HorseGirl784 for inspiring me and allowing me to use the different languages in this chapter!**

**Thanks again to my awesome beta, Peach the Hedgehog!**

**Part 3 will be up tonight - stay tuned!**

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><p><em>C'est La Vie<em>

_Part 2_

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><p><strong>Lillian POV<strong>

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><p>"Have a good day at work, my Sweet," my fiancée, Denny says to me before kissing me on the cheek. I blush and smile.<p>

"You too," I reply. Then I turn around and walk towards the factory. I do my best to ignore the guard who always checks me each evening as I pass him. It's always awkward when I see him – it's just a reminder of how violated I feel every day.

As I walk inside the factory and approach the elevator, my friend, Antoinette approaches me, her short, Robin's egg blue hair swishing with her bouncy steps. She's supposed to style her hair either up or back, but she never follows that rule. At least she wears a shirtwaist – I could see her trying out new fashions at work, but she knows our bosses won't tolerate it.

"Hello, Lillian!" she chirps.

"Hello, Antoinette," I greet her.

We're both French, so we converse easily. However, we both decided it's probably best if we speak in English, so we can adjust to our environment better. Our bosses don't like us to talk, hum, sing, or anything of the sort as they feel it hinders with our work, so we don't get an opportunity to speak much. In fact, I saw a girl get fired last week for humming out of pure joy – she had just gotten engaged that morning.

As we wait for the elevator to come, we chat a bit about the day ahead. When the elevator arrives, we step inside and smile at the operator, asking him to take us to floor nine. It's awkwardly silent on the ride up, and I'm not sure why. All that can be heard is the creaky cable wire that pulls us up towards our destination. Once we reach the ninth floor, I thank the operator as we step off.

Antoinette leads the way to our work stations – we're right next to each other. We pass by about six twenty-foot-long tables along the way, both sides of the table occupied by about ten girls each. The whirring sound of the sewing machines is a familiar one, for sure – I've been working here for nearly three months, six days a week from seven thirty AM to 5 o'clock PM. I get paid $7 a week. It doesn't even cover half my rent, so after I leave work for the day, I go to my tenement and work for the landlord, cleaning his tenement to make up the rest of the rent. Honestly, my landlord is very kind for doing so. I make him dinner every night as a thank-you – using his ingredients, of course. He's always thankful for it, since he's an old, widowed man that has a hard time getting around.

Anyway – we continue walking, passing about 120 young workers along the way. Most of my coworkers are girls aged fifteen to twenty-three, and most are immigrant girls from Russia, Germany, Italy, and even a couple (like Antoinette and me) are from France. During our lunch break, you can always hear a variety of languages and dialects. It's interesting, if you have the time to consider it.

Antoinette turns at the seventh table and makes her way to the middle, and I follow her. We both sit down and get right to work. My mind instantly goes into work-mode; block out all distractions and let my fingers do the work so I can pass the time and think.

_What is Denny doing right now? _

The fabric flies through my hands as I check the buttons on the shirtwaists – my eyes and fingers are almost like a machine, able to just automatically work without me really thinking about it.

_I wonder what I'll have for dinner tonight…if I can afford dinner._

_ Oh, a defective shirt._ I throw it in the scrap bin and grab the next shirtwaist.

_What should I cook Mr. Michaels tonight? He had stew yesterday, maybe I can try to make the same thing, but change it a little by playing with the seasonings and spices._

The process continues until twelve thirty, when the lunch bell rings. _Finally!_ I straighten my neck, which feels awful yet at the same time brings sweet relief. After five hours of working, I'm ready for a break. I wiggle my fingers, interlock them, turn my palms away from my body, and push away from myself to give my hands and arms a nice stretch. Antoinette and I share knowing glances as we stand up – we're both relieved for our short lunch break.

Right before we're about to sit down to work again, a familiar face makes its way over to me.

_Denny!_

My fiancée walks over with a grin on his face. I know that grin – he's got something up his sleeve.

"_Salut ma belle_," he greets. He says little phrases in French sometimes, just to be romantic and sweet.

A blush creeps on my cheeks. "_Salut monsieur_," I reply.

Denny furrows his eyebrows. "Monsieur? Why so formal?" he asks, taking my hand.

I laugh. "No reason! I just felt like saying monsieur, is there a something wrong with that?"

"Not at all. Hey – I have a surprise for you." There's that grin again!

"What?" I know my face wears a confused yet worried expression. Sometimes Denny comes up with odd little schemes that just don't work out, and I'm worried this is one of them.

He drops down on one knee; right there in the middle of the sweltering factory, bringing me back to when he proposed a month ago.

It was a beautiful June evening, and we were taking a walk through the park, our fingers intertwined lightly. The entire time I was with him, he seemed sort of distant, nervous, and worried. When I asked him what was wrong, he'd swallow hard and say nothing. I was worried he was going to tell me he didn't want to pursue our relationship any further, but then just out of the blue, he dropped my hand, stepped in front of me, causing me to almost run into him, and then got down on one knee.

Denny stumbled through the proposal. "L-Lillian, I love you with all my heart. We've known each other for a year, and now that we're courting, it's been a blessing. But I want to take our relationship to the next level and get you out of that rusty old tenement where you're by yourself. I love you. W…Will you marry me, Lillian?"

I was in complete and utter shock; I hesitated for a couple of moments before it really hit me. _Denny wants to marry me,_ I thought.

I didn't have to do any more thinking. I nodded my head frantically and grinned from ear to ear, saying, "Yes! Of course I will, Denny!"

He smiled that classic grin of his and sprung to his feet. "R-really?"

I was still smiling like an idiot at that point. "Yes!"

Denny wrapped me in a hug instantly, which I gladly returned.

Back to the present.

Denny takes my hand, and the room falls silent.

"Lillian, I was thinking… What if we get married tonight, after work?"

Girls gasp from delight all around me, and I'm shocked myself. I just stand there, staring into his dazzling brown eyes, and then I realize I should answer him. "Sure, why not?" I reply, a grin quickly growing on my face.

Denny breathes a sigh of relief before standing up. He hugs me, and the sound of applause fills the room.

When he pulls away, Denny pulls something out of his jacket pocket. "Lillian, I've wanted to give you this for a while. I'm sorry I couldn't get you one sooner, but better late than never, right?"

He opens his palm, revealing a simple, gold band. Denny could never afford one before; how could he now?

"It was my mother's," he says, knowing what I was thinking.

"Your mother's? Are you sure you're okay with me wearing this?"

He nods his head with a serious expression. "I wouldn't want anyone else on this earth to wear it."

Tears sting my eyes, and Denny slips the ring on my left ring finger – it fits like a charm. I laugh and cry at the same time, when I hear someone yelling from behind us.

"HEY! What's going on here?" Denny turns around and I can now see who the voice came from.

One of my bosses, Mr. Harris.

"Mr. Harris, I-I can explain!" I cry out.

"Hush, girl! All I see is you wasting work time, and holding up all the other employees!" Mr. Harris booms.

I glance at the clock, and it's exactly one o'clock – we're supposed to be working at this second.

"I'm s-sorry, Sir, I'll get right to work," I say.

Denny's hand tightens around mine, and I can tell he's holding back.

"And you!" Mr. Harris points to Denny. "You are no longer welcome in this factory – you're a distraction! Get out!"

"Yes, Sir, but you should know this is my fault," Denny replies, hiding his anger as best he can. I give him a reassuring squeeze of the hand before letting go and returning to my station.

"That means nothing to me. This girl should have been working, no matter what. What is your name, girl?" Mr. Harris asks as I'm walking away.

I stop and turn around. "Lillian, Sir."

"Well, Lillian, just for interrupting the work day here, you no longer have a job after today, and you do not get payment for this week!"

"But it's Friday! She's worked all week, and you're going to fire her and not pay her?" Denny shouts.

"Denny, calm down. It's okay," I say, trying to calm him down.

"No, Lillian! What he's doing isn't right! It's not legal, either!"

"And what do you know about the law, young man?" Mr. Harris sneers.

"I happen to work at the B&M Law Firm right down the street, Sir."

"Oh. Well, it matters not if it's legal. You are trespassing on my property right now; get out now!"

"…Fine. But know this isn't over." Denny walks away towards the elevator, but then turns around for some final words to Mr. Harris. "By the way, you might want to clean up around here – if a fire starts, there's no putting this place out with all the fabric everywhere."

"GET OUT!" Mr. Harris shouts, making the room deathly silent. Denny turns, walks in the elevator, and disappears within moments. Mr. Harris snarls at all of us, but stops at me. "Get back to work. All of you!"

I do as I'm told, and work until four thirty, when I need to use the restroom. We get a total of five minutes for using the restroom each work day, so I rush so as not to use up my time.

A couple of minutes later, I'm done. I wash my hands quickly and take my leave.

As I walk out of the restrooms, I find myself greeted by a suffocating cloud of smoke.

_Fire._

I run out of the little hallway and into the main factory, only to discover the entire thing being engulfed by flames, smoke taking up space where air should be. Girls are screaming everywhere, running to escape the flames licking at their skirts. Several girls' dresses are on fire, causing the individuals to scream louder than the ones trying to escape. For some, it's too much – they're either fainting or dying right before my eyes – either way, they're going to die if they don't come to.

And there's nothing I can do about it.

Denny was right – there's no putting this fire out!

I start thinking about how I can get out when I come up with an idea.

_The stairwell!_

I direct my attention to the one door that could save our lives, and then it hits me.

It's locked.

Several workers are piled against the door – many either passed out or dead. The ones that are conscious are banging on the door – screaming and crying and calling out for their parents, friends, and fiancées. I hear desperate, multilingual last words from all around me.

"_Arrivederci!"_

_ "Au revoir!"_

_ "__до__свидания__!"_

_"Auf Wiedersehen!"_

I glance over to the elevator, only to discover it's being crowded by over sixty workers, pushing and shoving to get in. There's no way I can get in there.

My heart pounds as I try to find another means of escape, and then I remember the fire escape on the left wall, even though I can't see it through all the smoke. I run through the flames, jump over burning, charred corpses, and knock over some tables that have fabric scraps on them. The screams of all the girls still haven't died down – if anything, they've intensified and become more bloodcurdling as they are burned alive, dying in a miserable, torturous way. I finally make my way over to the fire escape, which is already surrounded by about forty workers. I notice Antoinette is in the middle of the rickety fire escape, and then I hear a snap.

The fire escape plunges down nine stories, taking about twenty workers with it. I hear horrified gasps, terrified screams, and then a giant thud.

Antoinette is gone.

Before I have time to even register what just happened, I feel heat trickling up my legs, and when I look down, I discover I'm on fire.

I scream for the first time, and cough and gag on the smoke that's suffocating the rest of us that are alive. The screams don't let up as I run to the nearest window and look down – there's several hundred people watching us. There are fire trucks and firemen on the ground, begging me to stay put.

The fire continues burning my clothing until it starts charring my skin, and that's when I decide what I must do.

I climb up on the ledge and I notice how far up we really are. My heart is beating out of my chest as I take a deep breath of air – precious, clean air. Several workers line up by the windows like I do, but none yet have the nerve to do what I'm about to.

I jump, knowing this is the end. My life is going to end right here and now, after only seventeen years. I think about Denny, and how he will feel about all this.

If I could tell him anything, it'd be not to worry about me. I'll be fine. I'm sorry we couldn't be married sooner; you know how much I wanted to marry you.

_Je t'aime._

My final moments seem to linger, the wind whipping through my hair and encouraging the fire to crawl up my dress even further than it has. It doesn't seem fair that I have to die this way. But I guess I have to accept it.

_C'est la vie._

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Salut ma belle - Hello beautiful_

_Salut monsieur - Hello sir_

"_Arrivederci!" - goodbye_

_"Au revoir!" - goodbye_

_"__до__свидания__!" - goodbye_

_"Auf Wiedersehen!" - goodbye_

__Je t'aime. - I love you__

__C'est la vie - That's life.__

**Reviews are appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**The theme song for this chapter is It Will Rain by Bruno Mars. It's very fitting. Not the breakup part...but the chorus is what fits the best.**

**I hope you like the end of this, this is one of my favorite things I've ever written.**

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><p><em>C'est La Vie<em>

_Part 3_

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><p><strong>Denny POV<strong>

I storm out of that Godforsaken factory, hotter than a pistol. How dare Isaac Harris treat Lillian like that! How dare he fire her, and how dare he talk to me the way he did! I can assure you, Lawyer Goldman will be notified of this event!

As I walk back to the law firm, I adjust my Monroe hat and fume silently, wishing I would've said more. But I know I couldn't. I feel terrible for getting Lillian fired. If I hadn't gone in there, I wouldn't have postponed her work, and then she wouldn't have been fired, and then I wouldn't have yelled at her boss!

Well, that last part was a long time coming, and probably would have happened anyway - but still. I wish I could have waited until the end of the workday to ask her. I feel so awful now.

I walk in the law firm and head straight for the elevator, not in the mood to talk to anyone. Once the elevator is open, I enter and wait for it to bring me to the sixth floor. It seems like it takes an eternity to get there, and when the doors open, I stalk out and into my office. I refrain from slamming the door, as that would cause a fuss and I don't want people talking to me.

I gently shut the door and sit in my office chair, only to be greeted by a two-inch stack of paperwork with a note on top.

_I need you to fill these out and sign them right away. It's an emergency. – Elliot_

I roll my eyes. When an emergency actually occurs, no one is going to believe him, since everything is an "emergency" to him.

Dragging the stack over to me, I grab a pen and scan the documents over. I absentmindedly fill in the same kinds of papers I see every day; asking my name, occupation, answer some questions, and sign.

I'm finished with the stack right before closing time. It's four thirty, and I have about a half an hour before I can leave. Out of pure boredom, I decide to proofread the documents I've filled out.

Five minutes later, Elliot bursts in through the door. His peach colored hair is disheveled, his glasses are crooked and about to fall off his nose, and his tie is hanging loosely around his neck.

_Let me guess…another emergency._

"Denny! It's an emergency!" His deep brown eyes are wider than saucers.

Leaning back in my chair, I sigh and cross my arms. "What is it now?"

"It's the Triangle Factory… It's on fire!"

My heart just about stops; this really _is_ an emergency.

I stand up and run out of the room, pushing Elliot aside to get a clear path. Weaving my way through people standing in the hallway, I make my way to the stairs. The elevator takes far too long. I dash down the stairs, not caring about running into people along the way. Lillian works in that factory, and I _need_ to make sure she's okay.

I push on the glass of the revolving door to get through to the street, thinking about how slow it is. The second I run out on the street, I smell the overwhelming odor of smoke. My feet pound on the pavement as I run at speeds I never knew I was capable of, and my prized Monroe hat flies off as I run, but I don't care one bit. I only care about Lillian right now.

I turn the street corner and see the eighth, ninth, and tenth floors; all perishing in a fiery blaze.

_ Lillian works on the ninth!_

Sheer panic takes over, and I push my way through the hundreds of onlookers that have gathered around the building, trying to get to the entrance. People are chattering, gasping, and crying all around me. Firemen have already surrounded the building, and have a ladder extended against the building, and it's supposed to be the tallest in all of New York City. It falls short three floors, only reaching the seventh.

I scan the crowd desperately, looking for Lillian. I call her name several times, but I don't see her. I see several burnt and shaken immigrant workers, but there's no sign of Lillian.

I continue to push my way through the crowd, and once I reach the front, I'm barricaded by a chain of police. "Sorry Sir, you can't get through!" one officer hollers over all the noise.

"You don't understand, my fiancée is in there! She's only seventeen!" I yell back.

"I understand, there's over a hundred left in there, Sir, but we can't risk a pedestrian. Please stand back, we'll do our best."

As I'm about to argue with the officer even more, I hear screaming behind me. I look up and notice one girl standing on a window ledge. I squint even further, still being restrained by the police officers, trying to see the girl clearer. I'm horrified as I realize -

It's Lillian.

"LILLIAN! DON'T JUMP! PLEASE!" I scream, tears falling down my face. I'm past panic – I'm in complete and utter terror.

Other people join in my protests, all screaming the name they heard come from my mouth, begging her not to jump.

She doesn't listen. After a few seconds of standing there and looking around, she leaps away from the fiery death trap and jumps into another, more instantaneous one.

"NO!" I scream, body-slamming into the officers so I can get through. They resist and blow a whistle in my ear, trying to get me to stop.

As I watch her fall, it's as if everything around us has disappeared. The crowd is no longer in existence, the other buildings aren't there, the police aren't keeping me from going to her – all I see is the burning factory and the love of my life plunging to her death. Time seems to slow down, making her fall seem like it takes hours, not seconds. All I can hear is my own heart beating as if it's in my head, not my chest. The flames cling to her dress, lick at her already burnt legs, climb up her dress that beats in the wind, and spreads faster than the Influenza. Her beautiful, long, light brown hair whips in the wind like the American flag in a wind storm – sharp and precise, yet wild and uncontrolled, all at the same time; just like Lillian herself.

And then she hits the ground with a deep, dull, nauseating thump. She doesn't move. All that is left of her is a still, deathly quiet pile of broken bones and burning clothing.

The crowd gasps in horror, and I don't blame them. I push even harder against the policeman, screaming at them to let me through. Hot tears mixed with sweat stream down my face in a complete downpour. I've never been such a mess.

"I NEED TO SEE HER! _PLEASE,_ LET ME GO TO HER!" I protest, pushing and body-slamming even still against the policemen.

"Sir! Sir!" One shouts, grabbing me and shaking me by the shoulders, getting my attention. "We'll let you through when this is all over. I promise!"

I stand silent. There's nothing I can do now. More gasps and screams are heard from behind me; I glance behind the officer to find several girls following in Lillian's footsteps. They all drop at different times, making sickening thumps against the pavement, like raindrops on a stormy day.

_Thump, thump, thump, thump _– I count sixty-two thumps by the time the whole ordeal is over.

I'm in hysterics for a while, and then I'm quiet. I don't shed a tear. I just watch, immobilized and desensitized in a way as I watch all the girls fall to their deaths.

But none of the thumps affect me as much as Lillian's. That was the death of the one good thing I had in my life – the only girl I've ever loved, and the only one I ever will. I'll never love anyone like the way I loved her.

No. I still love her. She just can't feel it. She doesn't know it. She _knew_ it, but doesn't now. Lillian died knowing I would have died for her – I loved her more than life itself.

After the fire is eventually put out, an officer leads me to Lillian. She's soaking in a pool of blood, and the flames that had engulfed her dress have mauled her face, hair, skin, everything. All that's left is a charred, still corpse.

And then I see the golden band on her finger, a reminder of what could have been, what _would _have been, if this fire never stole away her young life.

_She was only seventeen._

The sentence replays in my head over and over again, whispering the taunt to me as if it's trying to make me feel worse. How can I feel worse? I'm staring at the corpse of the beautiful young lady that once loved me, and that I still love.

And to think just this morning I said, "Have a good day at work, my Sweet," and kissed my beautiful fiancée on the cheek, fully expecting her to return from the workday safe and sound. We were to be married tonight at eight o'clock in the park, where I proposed. All of our future together was ruined in only thirty minutes.

But I guess it's as Lillian always said when things didn't go her way.

_C'est la vie._

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><p><strong>So, what did you think? Was this tragic?<strong>

**146 wound up dying in that fire. About 140 of them were young women, aged 17-23. Some were older (and younger) than that (the youngest were 2 girls aged 14), but that's the greatest majority. **

**I hope you liked this!**

**I'd LOVE reviews. Thank you so much for reading!**


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